


You Are the Bearer of Unconditional Things

by Alcoholic_Kangaroo



Category: Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Foot Fetish, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:34:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24098920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alcoholic_Kangaroo/pseuds/Alcoholic_Kangaroo
Summary: L shows up in the middle of the night and notices Near wears sock at night. That's it, you're not getting more from me.
Relationships: L/Near | Nate River
Comments: 8
Kudos: 28





	You Are the Bearer of Unconditional Things

**Author's Note:**

> Took me a minute to come up with a random song lyric (all my fics are random song lyrics) to use as a title here but lemme know if you get it. Anyway, I also started a Twitter account at @toxictimeless if anybody wants to see me rant about shit.

It’s past one in the morning and pouring rain on the dark streets outside when L arrives at Wammy’s House. He is cold. His muscles ache but he cannot help the way his body continues to shiver. Every breath hurts, his lungs burn. There is a cut along one cheek that smarts, but it is not deep, despite the smear of blood that clings determinedly to his wet skin like dry glue.

Only one inhabitant of the orphanage is awake, and he startles at L’s sudden entrance, his eyes wide with fear at the sight of the tall figure standing in the door doorway. The light from the fireplace mirrors in those dark pupils and L almost swears he can see his own reflection staring back at him, demon-like. Doubtless, he does make a fearsome sight, appearing wet and dripping and panting in the dead of night, hidden in the shadows of the foyer. Despite his exhaustion, L puts out one shaky hand and takes a couple carefully slow steps into the room.

“Near, it’s just me.”

“L!” Near breathes. He moves faster than L has ever seen him move before, tiny socked feet thudding against the floor. His little arms going around L’s own scrawny waist. Nearly dead on his feet, the man half-collapses onto the boy, allowing the waif to carry a portion of his weight for him.

“I need to sit down,” L insists, his voice quaking. Not that he needs to say that, Near can tell and he moves him towards the fireplace, towards the chair beside it, but L wants to be closer to the warmth and shakes his head when the child tries to guide him towards the piece of furniture. He sinks onto the floor instead directly in front of the flickering flames, droplets of water falling onto the hardwood floor all around him. They lie transparent and glistening like little jewels, glowing shades of red and orange near the fire.

“I’ll, I’ll get a towel,” Near says, and L senses how truly rattled the young boy must be because he never stutters, and he never runs but tonight he does both. L watches him disappear, a specter of white vanishing into the blackness of the hallway. His fingers still trembling, L reaches for his own soaking shirt and pulls it over his head. His normal long-sleeved top with the thin, clinging fabric had been fine when he had left his hotel room in the golden morning sun, but late October weather in England can be deceptive. His face feels sensitive from being too wet for too long and even the normally comfortable fabric of his shirt feels scratchy and coarse. By the time L has escaped his wet jeans, wiggling from them in a squirming, kicking motion, Near is back with multiple cream-colored towels and what appears to be the comforter from the boy’s own bed.

“Please give me a moment of privacy,” L requests quietly. The boy nods, informing him he’ll fetch him a cup of hot tea, and disappears once more. L removes his underwear and dries himself off thoroughly before wiping off the rainwater from the floor around him with one of the towels. It is still soggy from his hair and leaves a smear of moisture on the floor that quickly dries in the baking heat. By the time Near returns, the older man is wrapped up in the blanket, his face turned towards the flames of the fire. His teeth chatter but his face feels hot as if he were blushing.

“Earl Grey,” Near says, holding out the mug for him. “With lots of vanilla creamer, like you like it.”

“Thank you, little one,” L nods, taking the cup from him, gratefully. It feels burning hot against his own cold fingers, wrinkled from the dampness. It is simultaneously painful and numb. L brings the cup to his lips and sips at the hot drink. The sweet liquid burns down his throat, heating him from the inside out. He takes note of the pile of blocks on the floor beside him, lying scattered across the floor as if they had been suddenly knocked over. “Why were you playing out here alone? You’re up awfully late for a ten-year-old.”

“I’m eleven,” Near corrects. “I have been for over two months now.”

“Ah, yes, I’m sorry,” L apologizes. His mind feels slow and he is not sure if it is the exhaustion or the cold dragging him down so. “I missed your birthday this year, didn’t I? Did you get my present?”

“I did,” Near nods. He drops beside L on the floor, kneeling beside him. As usual, his white pajamas are immaculate. L feels filthy beside him, the mud still visible against his ankles and his hair lanky with rainwater, brushing against his cheeks. “L, what happened? Why is your face cut? Why are you so wet? Were you walking out in the rain in the middle of the night? I thought you were in France?”

“If you’re wondering, I did not swim the English Channel,” L assures him, but Near shows no recognition on his young face that he had realized it was a joke. “Could you please fetch my spare laptop from my rooms? I need to contact Watari.”

“I, yes, of course,” Near stammers, sitting back some as if L had somehow offended him with this request. “But I could just wake up Roger and-”

“No,” L shakes his head slowly. More droplets of water fall from the black tips. He brings a towel back to his hair and scrubs the ends between his palms. “I don’t want to deal with anybody else right now. I assure you, I’m fine. I have taken care of the criminal. I just need to warm up and gather my strength.”

“If you’re sure,” Near replies. He slowly climbs up onto his feet. “But your rooms are locked.”

“The code is 2253,” L says. He rarely gives out the access code to his bedrooms to anybody and he will change it as soon as possible but he trusts Near not to go snooping through his belongings. “The laptop is just under the side of my bed near the window.”

Near nods. Darts off again. L feels somewhat guilty for making the poor child run around like a well-trained dog. But he needs to get hold of Watari to let him know he’s okay. He doesn’t know where his phone is, but he suspects he lost it when the bomb went off and he had been forced to jump from the helicopter. He’ll have to ask Watari to send the self-destruct code just in case somebody locates it.

Still shivering, L pulls the comforter tighter around his body. It has a faint scent to it. The smell of a living, breathing human being. Vaguely of wood polish and sage. The white sage body wash that Near favors from that small shop by the local toy store. Yes, this is his blanket, as L had assumed, but he is not offended by these smells. Near is a very clean boy and L knows the staff at Wammy’s House wash all the children’s bedding regularly. His scent is vaguely comforting, if anything. It reminds him of his home and the people who care about him. Warm fireplaces and musty books and church bells.

It feels strange to be sitting with only one knee drawn up, however, the other leg bent and resting against the ground. Foreign in a place of familiarity. But his calves ache from the long swim and he doesn’t have the energy to pull himself up. That’s alright, he doesn’t need to think right now anyway. The man is dead. The USB has been destroyed. L can rest.

Near sets the laptop in front of him and then takes the empty chair himself, pulling one leg up to his chest as he usually does. Not that different from how L himself is positioned right now. He opens the chat program and calls out to Watari. He can feel the boy’s worry radiating off him almost as hot as the fireplace. It feels nice, to have somebody who cares about him so nearby.

“L? Where are you? I’ve been trying to reach you for hours.” His guardian answers immediately. Watari’s eyes look red and L hopes it is from lack of sleep and not crying over him. Watari sometimes gets emotional over things.

“I’m at Wammy’s House,” L replies, hiding his exhaustion from his voice. He moves slightly to the left, trying to disguise from the camera the fact that he is wrapped in only a blanket. “There were some complications, but everything is fine now. I’ll spend the night here. Please arrange for a car to pick me up tomorrow afternoon at about three.”

“I’m so relieved to hear that,” Watari’s voice comes through the speaker. “How on earth did you make it all the way there though?”

“I’ll explain it to you in person,” L replies. Not because he distrusts the security of their connection but because it is a long story and L very much just needs some time to sit and be quiet after today’s ordeal. Talking is about the most exhausting thing he can think of doing right now. “Oh, and can you please put in an order for that ube cake I like from Madame Frill’s?”

“Of course. Anything you wish. I will see you tomorrow.”

“Thank you. Goodnight, Watari.”

“Goodnight, L.”

L knows he should work some more. He should take down some notes. Check some e-mails. Read up on the news. Instead, he closes the laptop and pushes it aside, tucking it safely beneath Near’s chair. The blanket has slipped some, exposing the top of L’s back and chest. He pulls it up around him, up around his throat. Near is looking at him with something akin to disapproval.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” L asks but he already knows the answer. Near is a very smart child but he is still a child and children do not see the world in shades of gray. It will be several more years before Near will graduate from his black and white mentality.

“You lied to Watari,” the boy accuses, his voice thick with betrayal, as if L had lied to him and not the old man.

“I did not,” L counters.

“You told him you were fine,” Near responds. His dark eyes are surprisingly hard looking for a child of his age. “You didn’t tell him you were at the point of collapse when you arrived or that you have multiple cuts and bruises or that you are bordering on hypothermia.”

“I am not bordering on hypothermia,” L can’t help but chuckle at the boy’s concern. “I’m cold but I’m far from reaching such a state.”

Near scowls at him. L watches him reach for a lock of his silver hair and begin to twirl it around his finger as he has a habit of doing. There’s always been something oddly charming about it. There has always been something oddly charming about the boy overall. Perhaps his overly serious demeanor, so strange for a young boy with such an angelic face. Or the little habits and mannerisms that so closely shadow many of L’s own. Something Near is like a tiny version of an adult, and sometimes he is so very childish.

“He will hear the story tomorrow,” L gives in, not wishing to see this boy upset with him any longer. “I will tell him everything then, I promise. I just do not wish to worry him tonight. Ignorance is bliss, little one.”

“Ignorance is stupidity.”

“Yes, that as well. Good thing you are neither, my brilliant child. I am so glad that you were the one waiting here for me tonight. It feels like it has been years since I last saw you.”

Near does not smile, he would never go that far, but L notices the slight changes in his body. The way the tension melts from his shoulders, and the tightness at the corner of his mouth smooths. He is happy with L’s words. He is L’s favorite, he knows that, but it is always nice to be reminded of the fact. He has been L’s favorite since the first time he laid eyes upon the boy.

Near, in all probability, will be L’s heir. If he outlives L, anyway. He is not that much younger than L himself compared to a normal human life span but given his line of work it is not entirely outside of the realm of possibility that L may die young. A backup will be needed if such an event occurs. More likely, however, Near will eventually join him at his side. Normally, L prefers to work on his own but sometimes it is necessary to procure assistance. Wedy and Aiber come in handy but are not entirely trustworthy. Several years ago, L had deduced that it would be much more preferable to raise a team of his own young stars and of those stars Near shines most brightly. The other students, B and Mello and Matt, they will come in handy for essential hands on assignments in the future, but not Near. He is too quiet, too reclusive. And too valuable to risk losing.

The call had come from a small homeless shelter in a nameless town in a generic American state. A boy who had been so far advanced for his age that he had been scaring the workers at the establishment. The woman who called told Watari she had heard from another social worker at an orphanage about his open plea for talented children. Normally, Watari or Roger or another one of the workers would travel to these places to gauge their abilities but something about the description had stood out to L then. The way that woman had described the boy to Watari had been so familiar that it had almost sounded as if she had been describing L himself at a younger age.

To this day, Near is the only child L went to meet personally. A young preschooler with snow white hair and too-large eyes. His mother, a woman with a tangled mess of black curls, had been passed out on the cot-like bed beside him, sailing in an opiate-driven dreamworld from L’s calculations. Most likely she would not survive the year.

The child had been so very, very small, that something about his size had triggered something inside of L. Some nurturing emotion he had not realized he had the ability to feel. For the first time L had understood the concept of cute aggression. Near was cute. Near still is cute. Like a kitten is cute. Small and fluffy and vulnerable and so easy to destroy. The first time he had laid eyes on the boy he had wanted to crush him in his arms.

He didn’t do so, of course. He reached for him and lifted him and held him against his side and he had been so small he might as well have been weightless. Any other child may have cried over this action, especially given L’s less than welcoming appearance, but Near had just looked at him with those large eyes and asked him much too clearly and seriously for such a young child, “Are you here to take me away from momma?”

He does not know what happened to that woman. He left her an envelope full of money in exchange for her son and never heard from her again. Since then, L has taken a personal interest in Near’s education. He is about a perfect child as L can imagine ever to have existed. Near is L’s magnum opus.

This is why L does not mind having him here with him tonight. The other children would behave differently. B would challenge him to a game of chess or some other activity. Something that he would attempt to beat L at, to show of his prowess, then rage over once he lost. Mello would cling at him, seeking his attention, begging for his acceptance and approval. But Near?

Near is quiet. He sits beside him in his chair and fiddles with his hair and just stares at the flickering flames. Deep in thought. So deep that after awhile L wonders if the boy has forgotten he is there, or even where he, himself, currently is sitting.

L likes that. He likes it because he knows he does the same thing. He has been staring at the fire for several moments, reliving the day’s events in his minds, when he startles too, abruptly, an uncomfortable sense of disconnection overtaking him as his surroundings suddenly slam back into focus.

How much times has passed? He brings his cup back to his lips. It is warm but no longer scalding. He should probably go to sleep. But the idea of slipping into those cool sheets is unappealing quite yet. The fire feels so nice, though his shaking has finally subsided, and the dim light is comforting against his tired eyes. No, the idea of entering a cold, slightly musty smelling room right now is discouraging. His quarters always feel somewhat damp from disuse.

“Are you not tired?” L asks, pulling himself just a bit to the side, so he is facing Near’s chair at an angle. “It is very late, little one.”

“I do not sleep much,” Near confesses. He does not look at L. “I’ve noticed over the past year or so I barely remain unconscious for about four hours a night. I think, perhaps, my sedentary lifestyle hinders my sleep schedule.”

If L were a better guardian, he could possibly suggest that Near take part in more exercise. But he is not that type of guardian and he knows anything he says touting the health benefits of exercise would be lost on the boy. Near is not stupid and he knows the science behind all this. He sips at his tea instead and scans his eyes over the boy’s body, doing a visual check for any signs of malaise in his young form. Perhaps he is a little too skinny, his muscles a bit atrophied from disuse, but nothing alarming. His skin looks soft and healthy. Pale, of course, but a given considering his condition. His hair shines with health. His fingernails show a healthy pink glean. He glances as his feet next, as toenails are often another indicator of health problem, but the boy is wearing socks.

The boy is wearing socks.

Somehow, this sudden revelation leaves L feeling dumbfounded. Near does not wear socks. Of course, he had noticed the socks, in a vague, unobservant manner, but only now does he realize how strange that is. Near, like himself, usually prowls the hallways of Wammy’s House absolutely barefoot. But tonight, he is wearing socks. They are as spotlessly white as the rest of his clothing besides the little splash of gray across the toes and heel and L finds himself wondering how he manages to keep his feet so clean on these bare floors. Then he reasons that Near probably only put them on a short while ago, tonight after his evening bath, probably to keep his feet warm as he played out here by the fire on a cold autumn night.

Yet they reawaken a feeling inside his chest that L has not felt for a long while. That feeling he had felt that shadowy night he had first lain eyes on Near at that shelter. A stirring of some longing to hold and kiss and crush between his hands. Why, now, all of a sudden, is he feeling the reemergence of cute aggression for the boy? He thought he was over those emotions since Near had outgrown his initial adorableness. He is a cute boy, but he is not newborn kitten cute.

Except that’s not right, not exactly. He is not feeling the need to kiss and hold Near in his arms. He does not want to bite his tiny fingers or squeeze him so tightly between his hands that he can hear bones crack. Just his little socked feet. So soft and vulnerable looking in the pristine little socks.

He does not realize what he is doing until he reaches out and lays his hand across the foot resting on the floor. Only then does Near tilt his head to look at him, a look of puzzlement on his delicate features. He pulls back just an inch or so, dragging L’s hand along with him. His toes feel like small creatures beneath his palm.

“Is not your foot cold against the floor?” L asks, carefully curling his fingers around the boy’s foot. He lifts it to rest on his own splayed out thigh, the boy’s blanket the only barrier between L’s skin and Near’s foot. He slides his other leg down so both are stretched out in front of him, giving him a pseudo mermaid tale wrapped inside the comforter. “You’re so far from the fire.”

“Not that far,” Near replies. He does not seem particularly disturbed that L has moved his foot onto his lap. Though he grimaces when L’s fingers curls around it, one hand on each side, the fingertips digging into his soles. “Are you trying to give me a massage?”

“It would work better with both feet,” L suggests, his voice catching for a second. He feels as if he swallowed too suddenly. “Here, put both of them on my lap.”

“I…am fine how I am,” Near says, beginning to show some discomfort. L looks up and notices his cheeks just faintly glowing with a rose hue. “I am not in need of a foot massage, I assure you, seeing as how little walking I normally do.”

“Nonsense,” L insists, almost cooing. He feels as if he is speaking to a wild deer that may bound off at any moment if he does not move slowly. “I know how sitting in that position can cause cramping along the arches, I experience it myself. Come now, sit on your bottom and let me treat you. I’m actually pretty good at giving massages, so I’ve heard. Though I’ve never done so on this part of the body.”

Near consents though L has the uncomfortable feeling that it may only be because the boy looks up to him so and dislikes going against his wishes. He shrugs off the feeling, taking advantage of the situation. L takes a small socked foot in each hand, marveling at how miniature and doll-like they are, and begins to knead them, the tightness growing in his chest. They are just so tiny and cute they may as well be something furry and alive like twin hamsters in his palms. He has the urge to nuzzle his face into them.

The boy curls his toes as L’s thumbs press harder into the arches. They’re so stubby and something about the movement is entirely endearing. A tiny pained noise escapes from the boy’s lips. He was right, there is a tightness to the boy’s muscles. L pulls his thumbs back, releasing the pressure and slides them up over the toes. The fire continues to crackle behind him, filling the room with a soothing ambiance. The warmth in L’s chest has completely chased away his previous frigidity and he feels oddly content. Fully satisfied. As if he could die in this moment without a single regret. He gives in and leans down, pressing his nose to the side of the boy’s left foot. Nuzzling it. The fabric of the sock is soft and plush and feel amazing against his cheek.

“Is…is this something sexual in nature?” Near asks, his voice slow and calculated. L feels his heart skip a beat at the question, surprised at the boy’s intuition in the matter.

Sexual?

That is something L had not even been considering. The foot fetish is a very common fetish. One of the most common, in fact. It only makes sense a boy as intelligent and well educated as Near would jump to such a conclusion. Making it only even more surprising that L had not even considered such an idea himself.

“I…do not know,” he considers just as slowly, trying to figure it out in his own head. Near is a child. Being attracted to any part of him, even a usually non-sexual part of him such as his feet, would be symptomatic of pedophilia. But as he thinks on it, he makes note of his own bodily reaction: his unusually heavy breathing, the way his heartbeat is almost audible in the air between them. But sensuality is not tantamount to erotic sensation. Physical pleasure can refer to anything from sex to eating cake.

But…no. Near is right. This is more than that. But also, something different. He has seen the boy’s feet a hundred times in the past and had no such reaction to them. He recalls how they usually look, somewhat bony and softly pale as if they had been rubbed with baby powder. The image stirs no reaction with him. But how they are now, encased with the protective covering of the pristine socks…this is different. That is an entirely other matter entirely.

He imagines how the fabric would feel against his penis, the softness of the fabric sliding between his own heated flesh and Near’s arches, and goosebumps pop up along the expanse of his arms.

“I think it may be,” he concedes, bowing his head. He does not look up at the boy. “I’m sorry if that makes you uncomfortable, I am out of line.”

A long silence follows. The feet still rest on L’s lap, but he removes his hands, setting them on the ground beside him. He cannot look at Near but now all he has left to look at are the newly discovered objects of his affection and this may be even worse.

“I don’t mind,” Near says, his voice very even and cutting through the silence between them. “I was just…. wondering, I guess. Is there anything you want of me?”

L feels sickened by the boy’s words. He is a child. He should not be fine with a grown man fondling him like this. He should be even less fine with offering up some sort of help in the matter. But his words cause a throbbing between his thighs as his half-hard penis swells. What would the boy let him do? Would he allow him to just hold his feet in his lap as he jerks himself off beneath the blanket? Would he allow him to press his face into the souls? Would he, and here L’s cock jumps in anticipation of the thought, allow him to press the souls together and thrust between them until he came? He imagines the socks splattered with white strings of semen.

None of this is appropriate but does it really matter? Near is not like any other child out there, he is far more mature than his age predicts, and having his feet played with would in no way harm him physically. Maybe he would even come to enjoy it. L thinks he would enjoy having his feet played with by somebody he loved.

“Let’s retire to my bedroom,” he suggests.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry. This is a failed fic. I was trying to challenge myself by doing a foot fetish fic but I'm actually disgusted by feet so this was difficult for me. I had planned on writing out a sex scene but I just couldn't do it. I'm weak. Consider this an unfinished fic but that's what you get.


End file.
